


On This Day (February 27, 2018)

by AnythingThrice



Category: Hockey RPF, Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017-2018 NHL Season, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst and Feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, NHL Trade(s), Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 06:38:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16035029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnythingThrice/pseuds/AnythingThrice
Summary: Patrick looks ragged and about as vexed as Jonny feels, which is…well, to be honest, it's comforting. Not that Jonny likes to see him suffer, but everything tends to be better with Patrick around, even the shit times.





	On This Day (February 27, 2018)

**February 27, 2018**

* * *

Tuesday is one of those "patting pockets" days, the kind where Jonny feels on the wrong foot from the moment he wakes up. He compensates by checking and re-checking everything from his calendar notifications—no practice today, but hardly a day off—to his side mirrors in traffic. He makes it to MB without incident though, survives a grim breakfast meeting and a boisterous visit from a local school group, then crushes a punishing workout. 

But after, as he's hooking up to his ARP for a recovery session, he can't shake the niggling feeling that he's forgotten something. Missed a step somewhere. He mentally reviews the last twenty-four hours; all he comes up with is a near certainty that he hasn't said or done anything inexcusably rude. 

The fact that this is a low bar definition of success does not escape him. 

He's still stretching, essentially brooding in a puddle of his own sweat, when Patrick pokes his head in. He looks ragged and about as vexed as Jonny feels, which is…well, to be honest, it's comforting. Not that Jonny likes to see him suffer, but everything tends to be better with Patrick around, even the shit times. He made his peace with that fact long ago, as well as with the broader implications some people seem determined to draw from it. 

So he loves the guy, still sleeps with him on occasion. It doesn't mean they're ever headed for a surrogate and a house in Kenilworth. They've always been on the same page about this. It's hockey first, for as long as they can get away with it, no commitment greater than that to their teammates, their ambitions.

"Hey Kaner." Jonny sits up, fighting the urge to smile as Patrick enters the room with that stiff, slightly bowlegged shuffle he's left with after a heavy leg day, or going too hard on the bike. _"Doctor Kane's big-dick stroll,"_ as Bur used to say.

Patrick greets him with a chin lift and a gruff, "Hey," but his gaze slides right past, to the tables in the back corner. Jonny catches his frustrated huff when he sees Pawel's still working on Arty.

Jonny pats the floor beside him. "Got a minute?"

"Guess so," Patrick says, shrugging. Instead of grabbing a mat, he wrangles one of the big silver exercise balls over and gingerly takes a seat, thighs spread wide and elbows on knees. "What's up?"

He's facing out into the room, staring vacantly at the far wall, so Jonny's free to study Patrick's profile. He's greasy with sweat, his ear flushed a bright pink. He's two days past needing a shave and—Jonny's guessing here—more than that since he's had a good night's sleep. Jonny wishes that were something in his power to give. 

Come to think of it, though, maybe it _is._ Patrick tends to sack out pretty good after—

"Jonny?" 

"Right, I uh…" Jonny blinks, scooting back against the wall. He gropes for the towel he'd stashed by the head of his mat, runs it over his face and neck, and drops it in his lap. Totally smooth. "I thought it'd be a good night to get the boys together. You in?"

Patrick shrugs again, no more than a twitch of his shoulders. Jonny notices that he's got one of those little gel therapy balls in his left hand—not squeezing it, but rolling it around in his palm. It's a translucent, gummy red-pink that reminds him of raw tuna.

"My place maybe," Jonny adds, actually warming to the idea. "Local roadie night. Team only. Cards, games." For a brain fart it's not half bad; between their dismal record and the roster merry-go-round, it's been a rough fucking month. Hell, it's been a rough fucking season. The team could probably use some time to blow off steam and lick their wounds in private. "I'll get some decent grub in. Beer, wine, whatever the hell the kids drink. I'll even spring for babysitters, apologize to wives and girlfriends."

"Sure, sounds good," Patrick mutters. He's still staring off into nothing. He starts passing the ball from hand to hand in a quick, agitated rhythm. 

"Or if you think they'd rather go out, it's short notice, but I could probably swing a private room at—"

"I hate this part," Patrick cuts in, suddenly clenching the ball so hard it distorts, bulging out between his knuckles. " _Hate_ it, Jonny, all this, this…" 

He turns his head then, meeting Jonny's eyes for the first time, and any thought Jonny had of playing stupid—pretending Patrick's bitching about having to wait for Pawel, chirping him for being a prima donna—is forgotten. Patrick is the only person Jonny knows capable of wrecking him with a single look, with the sheer ferocity of his heartbreak.

"I know it's the business we're in, but right now it fucking sucks. And out there, having to pretend like it _doesn't_? That sucks even worse. We're not fooling anyone with this shit. I just wish... " Patrick trails off, blinking.

Jonny has to swallow a few times before he gets out a hoarse, "Yeah, I know." 

He knows it's more than the sudden loss of Hartzy and Wingels. It's _all_ the great guys who aren't here. It's missing out on the Olympics while watching their tragic number dwindle to the point where playoff hockey isn't going to happen either, even if no one wants to admit it yet. It's all the questions that have no good answers, the constant reminders that they're the old guys now and there's no way of putting time back on the clock.

Patrick looks away first, scowling down at the floor. Jonny can tell he's seconds away from making some shit excuse to leave before he actually tears up, and Jonny's not having it. 

"Hey." He tries swatting at Patrick's ankle with his towel, but it doesn't quite reach, so he kicks at the exercise ball instead, pushing hard enough to rock it.

Patrick startles with a grunt, limbs flailing for a moment before he regains his balance. He digs in with his heels and core, compressing the ball so it won't roll out from under him, and glares back at Jonny. 

"What the fuck?" 

"I hate it too," Jonny says emphatically.

"Good for you."

"Seriously, Kaner, I do, but—" Jonny gives the ball another kick.

"Yo!"

"—you don't see me stomping around, ripping people's organs out with my bare hands. No wonder all the rookies are terrified." Jonny looks pointedly at the raw-tuna-looking mess still gripped tightly in Patrick's fist and gestures towards the door. "Go on, you maniac. Give poor Schmaltzy his heart back."

Patrick's stares, lips pursed and eyebrows working overtime, but he seems more annoyed than sad now, so Jonny counts it as a win. 

"Go on, scoot. Take ten, hang with the kids, bask in that fountain of youth. I promise I won't let anyone jump the queue with Pawel."

"Oh my god." Patrick shakes his head, getting to his feet. He looms over Jonny for a moment, nudging at his bare heel with a sneaker-clad foot. "Later then, you big freak."

"You're welcome." Jonny gives him a wink. "And don't forget to re-rack your equipment."

Patrick rolls his eyes, but Jonny's sure he sees the beginning of a smile before he leaves.

When he returns, his hair's wet, slicked back under a hat, and he's changed from his leggings and sweatshirt into shorts and a loose-fitting tee. This time he locks in on Jonny right away, flashes a quick smile as he approaches the mat. His hands are empty.

Jonny finishes his last reps of cat-cow and eases back onto his heels. "Better?"

"Mm. So, did a quick poll," Patrick says, scratching at his cheek stubble. "I'd go with takeout from Sunda, and most of the kids aren't big drinkers, so make sure there's plenty of LaCroix and shit. Red Bull, too, if you can stomach buying it. And Oz said something about vodka and pickle juice, but fuck that. I put him down for box wine, the kind that looks like a purse. Seabs'll text you the final list."

"Yeah?" Jonny chuckles. "Well okay then. It's on. Thanks, Kaner." He has a feeling he's going to be footing the bill for a lot of random, pricey crap once everyone's chimed in, but he's touched by the amount of thought Patrick's put into this. Not surprised, because he knows what Patrick's caring looks like by now, but still… He doesn't want to take it for granted, so it hits him hard, every damn time. 

"Oh, and you need to call—" Patrick ticks them off on his fingers. "—Duke's lady, Vinnie's folks, Alyssa, and Abby. Abby's mostly for the girls' benefit though; Sharpy expects you to grovel. And Dayna's got a class tonight, so Seabs says he'll definitely be billing you for a last-minute sitter."

"Awesome," Jonny says, deadpan. Then, before he can stop himself, he adds, "And what about you?"

"What about me?" Patrick peers down at him, wary. "Already said I'm in. Definitely don't need a sitter."

"No, I mean…" What he means is he wants to know if Patrick's seeing anyone these days, anyone he's got to make excuses to for breaking plans on short notice. If he might want to stay over, after, let Jonny wear him out. But this isn't the way to ask, nor the place. He rolls his shoulders, lacing his fingers together behind his back, and breathes into the stretch.

"What about your mom?" he says, smirking. "Need me to call her, promise that there'll be adult supervision? That I'll have you in bed by ten?"

Patrick snorts. "You wish, old man." But he's tonguing his lower lip as he flips Jonny off, looking him over with that bright, steady focus that has Jonny thinking now they might be on the same page _exactly_. "I'll come by around six, help set up?"

"Sounds good." 

Patrick nods, then turns and heads for the massage tables, calling out, "Hey Pavs! I need my twenty-year-old legs back. How about it?"

Jonny watches him clamber onto the table and sprawl out on his stomach, arms hanging over the edge. Like this, his ass is his most prominent feature, a tidy hill of muscle between his broad back and trim legs. It's a decent view. It takes Jonny back to their rookie year, remembering how Buff and Langer had teased Patrick, all the times they'd goaded him into drunkenly backing into girls on the dance floor claiming he might as well lead with his best feature, which certainly wasn't his greasy teen choirboy face. 

Less amusing are the memories of all the spilled drinks, angry boyfriends—or girlfriends, a few times—and jacked-up bouncers with something to prove.

They were so fucking young back then, assured in their own talent and drive, but clueless about most everything else. And while Jonny certainly wouldn't mind that extra speed, a few less miles on his legs, he sure as hell wouldn't switch places with his younger self if it meant giving back everything he's learned.

Patrick makes this noise as Pawel starts in on his left hamstrings, a voiced exhale that ends in a groan. Jonny can only hear it because he's listening for it, is still watching. Because he knows that sound up close, in a very different context—knows how to get Patrick loud in bed, edge him past all worry and shame—and that's definitely one of those things he's learned that he's not willing to give back. 

Which is… The realization doesn't change anything, not really. Not today. But it's not nothing. Patrick coming to him, trusting him with the frustrations he doesn't want the other guys to see, that's not nothing. It's not nothing that they can, and do, still lift one another up.

Hell, yesterday's trades—the haunted look on Vinnie's face, the uneasy silence in the room—are a glaring reminder that it's not nothing that they're still here, together, in Chicago. 

Off in the corner, Patrick grunts, then sighs as Pawel smooths his hands down his leg and starts shaking it out. This part of their routine makes Patrick's butt jiggle. It's not nothing that this still makes Jonny smile, that he likes watching.

Just then Saader and Murph walk in. Jonny greets them with a nod, hastily releasing his stretch and sliding down into child pose, warm face hidden against the mat. 

Maybe his mom has a point. All the plans he's been laying down for his future, all the discussions they've had, tend to revolve around what, when, where, and how—never who with. Jonny's always insisted it's because he's content leaving that blank for now; his mom always shakes her head or murmurs something, deftly changing the topic in a way that lets him know she loves and respects him, but thinks he's full of shit.

Maybe he is. 

Maybe there's no blank to fill in. 

Maybe there hasn't been one for years now. 

Maybe, one of these days, he should mention that to Patrick.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> ~Found this moody snippet as I was procrastinating by combing through old folders (as one does), decided to work on it instead of the thing I was supposed to be working on (as one does) and purge-post it before the new season gets properly underway in the vain hope (as one has) that it will lead to better things, both for this team and my writing. :P
> 
> ~Set just after the February trade-deadline-day deals that sent Hartman to Nashville and Wingels to Boston and we all numbly, dumbly thought, "At least Vinnie's not going anywhere, and he still has his family nearby..." T____T
> 
> ~Should probably be titled (or freeform tagged) "Jonathan Toews Navel Gaze" but that's just silly, and these are serious feelings. Dammit.


End file.
